Unto the End
by KiyaNamiel
Summary: A short ficlet created from viginettes of scenes from the life of a Noldo Elf, from the Darkening of the Two Trees to the Rebellion of Feänor through the crossing of the Helcaraxë to the creation of Gondolin and his end at the side of the leader of his house. Rog and red were the only things he had come to trust, after all. Inspired by and dedicated to GingerRogers15.
1. Mangled

_I was thinking about how when I first started NirCele's Hundred Drabble challenge, I wrote a few pieces about scenes from the crossing of the Helcaraxë. Then I remembered how GingerRogers15, one of my reviewers whose opinions I greatly respect, expressed a wish to see me create a full fanfiction about it._

 _At first I declined, because in all honesty, I didn't and I still don't think I can do it justice. However, after thinking about it more, since it won't leave me alone, and also in hopes of repaying Ginger for all of their reviews, I decided to at least give it my best shot with a Drabble fic, or just one-shots all piled together into a fic that isn't necessarily full but neither is it just a random drabble. There were quite a few things that triggered the start of this, not the least being Nutella and angsty drabbles, which I sort-of-kind-of-not regret reading, but... what can I say? If the muse won't leave you alone, then RUN WITH IT (MARVEL reference-! *gets shot*)._

 _Anyways, so after much inner debate, conflict, scrapped efforts, and Nutella, I decided to try to do it from the point of view I seem to do best: that of a child. I think it's not too far-fetched to say that there were Elflings in the crossing as well, as much as I hate the thought. I chose to use an Elfling the age of sixty, which in our human equivalent would be around twelve - and though I started out using a female, I decided that I'd been doing that too much. So what the Morgoth, I decided to switch myself completely up from top to bottom and see how well I could do, especially considering I'm not a boy. Not by a long shot._

 _This won't necessarily be a full out fanfiction, so to speak, but it will be a bunch of connected one-shots and drabbles all featuring my OC's and a few canon characters here and there. All I really want to accomplish with this is to show you what I think it must have been like for the Elves in the crossing of the Helcaraxë._

 _So, let's see how this works out, and if I utterly fail... You know why. Leave an honest reaction and go occupy your precious time with something more worth it. Do it._

* * *

Chapter 1

The first time they had caught sight of the great white expanse, the Elves had murmured that there might still be hope to reach Arda beyond the sea. There was no going back, at any rate, because nothing but doom awaited them there, so they must go forwards. There were a few of the wise and elder, however, that shook their heads and muttered that they were walking into trouble beyond comprehension.

At that time, no one said _death_. That was unfamiliar to them, immortal beings never meant to see it, and the memories of the kinslayings were still fresh and raw in their minds, an open nerve that no one was willing to touch.

Their minds were - and still are - clouded with confusion, their thoughts jumbled masses of tangled, hazardous threads that could not - and still cannot - be untangled without getting oneself caught and perhaps never extricated.

So, they looked at death wrapped innocently in white robes, and whispered of _hope._

Faelon thinks they are _mad._ They are _insane._

How anyone ever thought that this was hope is beyond his mind, though he never says it aloud, and never would. Valar, if he ever makes it out of this alive, he'll never speak of it again, not even if he had the chance to meet Feänor face to face.

In the past few weeks, he's been forced from being an Elfling of sixty to a fully-capable, functioning adult. One of these days, it will catch up to him, but right now, he is too busy surviving to even think about anything else.

It had all started when his father and mother decided to follow the prince Turgon's banner, not so much from the swaying speeches of Feänor as the call of duty and loyalty to their rulers. His mother had always been a firm believer in loyalty and servitude, though she would never express it aloud and merely followed unflinchingly in her husband's steps. His father, on the other hand, capably led the way into everything, from the household to work - all the way into the arms of _death_ , which he had not managed to avoid tripping headlong into, along with his mother.

Even now, he wasn't fully sure what had happened. He didn't have a say in anything; he was just a child. He was dragged off into doom with his parents; rather unfairly, he thought sourly, since, after all, he had _nothing_ to do with the choices his parents made, so should he be included in the doom Mandos had declared on them as they passed under the ominous shadow of the mountains? It wasn't _fair,_ but there was nothing he could do, so he did the only thing he could: he survived. What choice does he have?

It had all been so blindingly fast, thanks to the newness of the situation and the fact that he had no idea what to do in such a situation. One moment there were Elves talking with Elves at the docks of Alqualondë in tenseness but absolutely no sign of violence, then the next moment there was chaos and a whirlwind of _things_ that just _happened._ Then he was hopelessly lost among the bodies of Elves, shoved about blindly and tripping over prone, motionless bodies.

There had been so much _shouting,_ and when he pulled his hands away from his ears when it was all over, he found himself staring into the glassy, unseeing eyes of his oldest sister. He thought she was asleep. How was he supposed to know what death was, never having seen it before? He shook her until his shoulders ached, plaintively calling for her in ever-increasing fear.

When his only remaining sibling, his older brother, finally found him, he allowed himself to cling to him and _wail,_ heartbreakingly loud and filled with such forlorn _emptiness_. He hadn't even cried for his parents. He didn't see their bodies. His brother hadn't allowed him to. He didn't want to. He didn't want to see _their_ eyes lifeless and unseeing, or their bodies, limp and perhaps mangled beyond recognition like some of the ones he had stumbled over in his aimless wanderings.

What had happened after his brother picked him up was a blur. All he can remember is his tears, hot and wet falling down his face, and not being able to let go of his brother, who held him as long as he could.

His brother's eyes are not the same anymore, as hollow and as cold as the blinding white that falls around them in endless, crisp sheets that blanket them in anything but warmth. There is such hopelessness in his brother's gaze, and he knows, through listening to his brother's mumbles in the deep watches of night, that his brother's hands are forever stained with red in defense of his life.

Camaendir is always numbing his hands in the cold snow all around them, attempting to get rid of the feeling of the life that stained them in the swift, devastating battle. The feeling of a hilt is always in his hands, and the screams forever in his ears. Faelon is not the only one that wakes up at night to the screaming of others.

The first few days, even spilling into a week and a half, was still considered to be hopeful among others, murmurs that surely the end of the monotonous landscape was nearing swiftly. Faelon had already concluded by then that they must be _mad._

Two weeks later, Faelon trudges next to his older brother who absently palms his sword by his waist, breathing shallow and loud in his ears, and hears a loud crack that signals doom. Moments later, behind him, there are shrieks and he whips around, seeing several Elves fall into the water. The struggle was brief and short. Only one was saved, and he did not last the night.

When he falls asleep, Faelon still hears the cracks and the screams, and he pounds his fist angrily against the unyielding ice he is lying on, gritting his teeth and begging the water underneath it to stop lapping the ice like it's trying to taste him.

When he hears someone voice weakly the _hope_ that they will make it soon, he grinds his teeth to himself and viciously decides that they are _insane._

The days have passed, and the entire company of thousands of Elves have fallen into the same routines everyday, to keep on surviving. Faelon doubts that they will come through this _living_. Their minds and hearts and souls, under this kind of unrelenting strain, will not hold up. They will certainly _survive,_ but _live?_ It is a fool's hope to think that much.

They find food in the strange, antlered, furry animals that cross the grinding ice in large herds, feeding on something that the Elves could neither locate nor imagine, while fending off the packs of wolves that occasionally attempt to prey on the Elves instead. Sometimes, they succeed.

By three weeks, Faelon has heard no more comments of hope. However, when someone, already driven half-mad from the cold, the hunger, and the memories that burn in their mind, mentions forcing death to prey upon them by killing themselves, Faelon comes to the weary resignation that they are _utterly debauched_ , and perhaps they all would be by the end of this venture. If he ever sees the end.

It has been three months now, and they have lost many Elves. He and his brother have stayed together all this time, though he has done much of the work. He worries for his brother. Camaendir is slowly failing in health both physically and mentally, and Faelon knows it by the way his brother staggers in a most un-Elven fashion from time to time, the way his hand brushes past his glassy eyes too often, and the way he sometimes stares at Faelon like he does not recognize his own brother.

Some Elves are still muttering about _surely_ being near the end now.

Faelon thinks that if they truly think so, they are _depraved._


	2. Cold

Chapter 2

At first, it hadn't really been that cold. They are Elves, strong and hardy, not prone to either sweat or shivers.

But that was at first. It wasn't sudden - the cold that crept up on them like a thief. No, it was slow and grappling, latching as innocently as possible onto their feet despite their fur boots. It was a new sensation, odd and tingling, not quite painful at the time.

Then it began to become more bold as no precautions were taken against it, and crept up their legs, slowly, meticulously, leaving not one little space untouched. It slithered into their very bones, leaving them feeling dense and heavy. When its first fingers curled around his hips, Faelon forced himself to go on and not sit down, rightly guessing that he would probably never get up again.

The more they walked, the more the cold stubbornly clung to them, grappling their waists and leeching into their arms in a freezing embrace, slowly crushing their lungs as it tightened further and further. When it reached their heads, it squeezed like a vice, leaving them aching and numb. Their lips turned pale blue, kissed by the cold, and their eyes rendered glassy and dull.

It wasn't until later, however, that Faelon saw the true danger of the cold. It started in his already-weakened brother. Camaendir was huddled in a ragged fur, his breath puffs of billowing white, reminding them painfully of the sails of the ships that they had been denied. His breath was more strained than it should be, and his eyes unusually closed against the biting cold.

"Faelon?" the mumble had left cracked lips, making the thin film of ice on his lips break and leave painful, ragged edges.

"Yes?" his reply had been dull and miserable, hunched in his own fur bundle.

"I cannot see as far as I used to," Camaendir managed to say quietly, and Faelon had stared in consternation. "They are numb..."

And then Faelon had realized the true danger. He was not the only one, and soon Elves were hunting viciously in their desperation for furs to cover their blackening and freezing and cracking fingers and toes and other delicate parts of anatomy. The cold had shown them it's true purpose: to eat them alive, slowly and agonizingly.

Faelon's fingertips and ear tips and the end of his nose had been the first to suffer, until the continual application of heated furs had thawed them enough to become red and painful, but saved from being lost forever.

It didn't end, though. Some lost use of fingers and even entire limbs, while others were bound to limp from half-frozen legs that refused to thaw. Then came the eyes. It was the snow that did it, the little, seemingly innocent pieces of falling white that would stick on their eyelashes and blow into their eyes. They were shards of ice, slowly piercing and weakening the eyes until burst blood vessels showed and dark shadows gathered thickly under their lids.

By the time a solution of veils had been concocted, his brother had lost sight in his left eye.

Faelon sat in his mound of furs and rocked back and forth in acute misery, trying to warm himself, comfort himself, and keep from crying all at the same time. No one wanted to cry, for fear that the tears would immediately freeze and damage their eyes and skin even more, but at the same time they desperately longed to cry, to pour out their misery freely in the natural reaction. But nothing was ever fair, not anymore, so they trudged on.

Elves dropped in front of their comrades, dead. Others began to wheeze from shards of ice that made their way down in their lungs and froze, suffocating them from the inside. Others began to cough up blood from the cold air that went down their throats and froze the dampness inside, forcing coughs to break the ice that tore at their innards.

Prince Turucáno stubbornly refused to give up, and soon, to conserve lives, he had ordered his people to divide into twelve houses and set lords over them. Faelon and Camaendir were set under the house of Róg, who took all of the orphaned children under his care.

Things improved as much as they could, the casualties dropping drastically as camps were made, rations were created, designated fire areas were set, and hunters were appointed.

They were far from the end, and yet people stirred up their comments of _hope_ again.

Faelon refused to give up his firm conviction that they were _mad._

* * *

 _... I fail at this. T^T I'm sorry. I just can't seem to manage to capture what I really think about the Helcaraxë, the horror, the madness, the slow psychological and physical torture... Be patient with me please, I think I'm getting there though..._


	3. Color

Chapter 3

 _If_ they ever make it out of this alive, Faelon declares to himself that he will never take color for granted again. For five months, there has been complete and utter darkness that he is not used to and only the elders ever remember. He was born in Valinor, where the trees had lit the world in a shower of golden and silver light, where the stars were only seen dimly when Telperion was in bloom.

This? This absence of light? It is disorienting and maddening, and the thought that even should they dare to return the trees would be gone is enough to drive a few over the brink of sanity. His brother is already teetering on the edge. If Camaendir leaves him, Faelon will know how selfish his brother is, because then he will be left alone, the only one left of his family.

Tattered clothes and brown furs and orange fires are the only colors he can register now because there is nothing but white all around them, and all other memories have become faded, washed out by the never-ending white and the mind-numbing cold. The blue and black of the ice and water only remind him of their bruises and the bite marks of frost. The white is a constant source of grating frustration, simply because there is no end to it.

The plains of snow are both white and black - in the rare case, though, they will see them splashed with faint hues of pink, purple, orange, green, and blue, because of the strange lights that sometimes flare to life above them in the sky, scintillating in sheets of glorious, blinding color. It makes his eyes water and _ache,_ but he does not grudge it because it is _color._

He ignores the whispers that the lights are the Maiar, making sure that they do not turn back. He thinks that such a notion is ridiculous. Why would they care any less? They have already been cursed, and _he_ knows, because he had nothing to do with the Rebellion, that the Valar are not what Feänor says they are. They are kind and they are wise, but sometimes - he says it to himself, but never _aloud_ \- they seem to be unfair. What did _he_ ever do to merit such cold disdain?

Nevertheless, there is no turning back for him. _He_ was not given a choice to turn back along with Finarfin's people, because Turucáno did not give them that option. Faelon is not sure whether he resents the prince for this, or thanks him for it. After all, who was to say that this living nightmare was better than what awaited Finarfin and his people when they returned?

Red is another color he has seen lately. Warm and thick and Crimson, smelling of rust and _life_ and yet _death_ all in one stream of liquid that pools everywhere, from reality into his dreams. It stains the white snow and turns it _pink_ , and his horrified, too-old eyes watch it spread among the people like a creeping sickness. The life of his people are draining away into the yawning maws of snow and ice and black water, and though they give so much, the colors never change. The ice never gives back their frozen dead. The water never retches up the corpses they have swallowed.

What would they do with them anyway, even if the elements were so kind? Faelon does not know. There is no place to bury them. There is no place where their bodies will not be desecrated, no place where they will find rest amidst the grinding, churning, changing ice. There is no place where they can be buried that could ever be found or visited again.

Among all the colors Faelon has catalogued, there is one that he has come to _trust_ , surprisingly, considering that all of the others have continuously _changed_. There was nothing to trust here, in the shifting, threatening white and blue, but there was _one_ that he had come to stick close to.

Strangely, it was _red._

Róg has been nothing but kind to the lost and orphaned waifs that he has taken in, making sure that they have been fed, clothed with furs, warmed by fires, and protected from wolves and frost alike - and even their fellow Elves, unpredictable in their throes of white-washed madness. His banner is the same _red_ that haunts Faelon's dreams, but it is a red that has never wavered, and a red that has flown in front of their group steadily now.

Róg is strong. His use of the blacksmith's hammer that he brought with him from Valinor is also stained with his signature _red_ , but it is not the red of Elven blood - it is the life-giving red of food and protection. It is the only red Faelon knows he can trust. Róg is the only Elf he knows he can really trust, because he is wary of his own susceptible mind, and his brother lost that privilege when he pried Faelon off the lapels of his tunic.

He will follow Róg to the very end, whatever that may be. He still firmly believes that there will be an end to _them_ , but not to this white. It has stretched before them until it met the black horizon, littered with stars like teeth. Some have began putting _hope_ in the stead-fast optimism of their leaders.

Faelon does not waver in his belief that they are _insane_.

* * *

 _These chapters are getting even shorter! What am I gonna do!? I feel like I'm running out soon... Although admittedly I am having fun discovering Faelon's backstory. I feel like he could be a good canon character if he were fleshed out more._

 _Also, kudos to those who caught the reference to the Northern lights, also known as the auroras. The Helcaraxë was up in the north of Middle Earth, so it can probably be safely said that it could be the equivalent of the land bridge that used to exist between Russia and Alaska. The same half-year-of-night and half-year-of-day along with the auroras. You can interpret it as you will, considering that I never really specified anything._


End file.
